joo listen to me.

Sometimes, when you see a really great movie, just remembering it is all it takes to make you grin.



I saw one of those recently.

Happy Feet, a movie about a tribe of penguins, of all things, makes me grin every time I conjur up a mental image of the little clan of short Hispanic penguins pictured in the photo above. They made the movie. Sans the cocky, Latin attitude they brought to the table, Happy Feet would've been a very odd, slightly endearing film. But with these guys, it was uproarious and adorable. I am more than willing to throw up an undisputed one and a half thumbs (they lost half a thumb with all the "Lovelace the penguin sex god" crap they threw in there). And honestly, it was not a very "good" movie. The plot had holes like your little brother's gym socks, and both the beginning and the ending lefts you with a "what, the crap?" expression on your face. But nonetheless, those little mexican penguins pulled through for me in the end, regardless of the fact that they weren't even all that relevant to the thesis statement of the story itself. They were over-confidence, and unexpected humor, and a really awesome hispanic accent.

I'm all about that.


Anyway. Another wonderful thing about the movie was the idea of a "heartsong." Every adorable little fluff of baby penguin gets sent to school shortly after hatching in order to identify and learn to sing their heartsong. What the heck is a heartsong? It is exactly what is seems like it should be. It is the music that plays from the inside of your soul to the outside of your body. It's what gets you a mate, what makes your identity, it's like a musical name. It's what makes you a penguin. No heartsong? No penguin.

Now, the whole plot of the movie revolves around Mumble, the penguin who dances instead of singing. He becomes an outcast for being "just not penguin" and moves in with the aforementioned mexican comrades. So, Mumble is in penguin love with this lovely little sheila called Gloria. Gloria's voice melts the heart of everything male she comes in contact with, but she's not really interested in any of it. She has a soft spot for Mumble.

My favorite scene in the whole movie, I think, is when the two penguin lovers realize at long last that they are made for each other. The heartsong is supposed to be designed to fit someone else's melody, as well as your own. The way to find a penguin mate is to sing until you hear what complements your own song. Gloria tries to discourage Mumble from his pursuit of her because he has no song, but he just keeps on dancing right up to her as she begins to sing. Suddenly, the camera is doing long, sweeping shots around them as they realize that her song and his rhythm are made for each other. You can see the hope rekindle in Gloria's eyes as she begins to again believe that someone was made for her, that her song is a duet.

Now, kid movie or no kid movie, that is enough to grab ahold of my heart.


I think that there is something so intrinsically resonant with humanity in needing to know that your song is a duet. It doesn't always mean marriage, or romance, or whathaveyou. I think sometimes it's just friendship, and the presence of another by your side in every circumstance. But, of course, because I am seventeen and because I am dating someone and because I am Annie, the romantic implications are unavoidably appealing to me.

I think maybe there's a chance that this is the "knowing" feeling that all these love veterans keep telling me about. I guess it's not all that much clearer of an explanation, but maybe the "knowing" is when you realize that your heartsong sounds like a duet with someone else's. Maybe that's when you drop your shields and start to look around like a naked person outside in January having no idea how you got where you are. I mean, I'm sure it's slightly more fun than that, but I'm guessing it would be just as startling.

Anyway. I did not plan that little soliloquy, but that's kind of the whole idea behind blogging for fun, I guess.

Hmmm.

Things I Like Right Now:

1. Fingerpainting. I might have to take a break, considering I don't want to burn myself out before I can churn out more than two canvases, but I do like painting so much. I stopped for a long time, probably because I didn't feel like I was doing very well at it. Self-discouragement hit me like a monsoon of silent uncreativity, and I didn't paint for months. This is okay. I didn't need to paint, for a while. And then I did. So I painted, and I am so glad. There is something inherently strong in the connection between artist and art when the work is done in putting fingers, hands, and skin directly to the canvas. It's like the brush is the only thing barring you from being completely involved in what you're working on. When that barrier is removed, nothing remains, and it's just you, covered in paint, smiling.

2. "I miss you" texts. Almost as good as the ever-popular "I missed you so much" hug (coming soon to an Annie near you!).

3. Long talks. I slept over at the wonderful, beautiful Ashley Moore's home last night. It was five in the morning before I realized that we had been sleepovering since approximately 9:30PM that night and we had done nothing but talk. And by "nothing," I mean nothing. We talked for hours and hours without any real concept of how time was passing, only pausing to realize at the end of it, right before we slept, that we had been in conversation for an unbelievably extended period of time. Then we smiled, made awesome jokes about dumb things, and slept for not-long-enough. Oh, sleepovers. I think I will continue to have them with my close friends (or my husband) when I'm technically too old to do so anymore. I can picture me, with a DVD in one hand and a pint of Ben&Jerry's in the other, looking very pajama-ey and with pleading eyes, convincing the love of my life to stay up until all hours just to sit and sleepover with me. Oh, boy. I am such a girl, and I love it. Maybe we'd make a concession for the sake of his manliness and watch something with explosions in it. Either way: fun.

4. Oreos. With peanut butter, milk, and a big smile. Heck. Yes.

5. Naps. I'm beginning to believe that it is more fun to wake up early and sleep through the afternoon than it is to sleep all morning. I have yet to purposefully set this plan into action in my life, but it seems like a good idea to me. I napped today from 6-something to 8-something, and was awakened by the sound of thunder outside my window. What a beautiful feeling that is. Those are the kinds of moments when I thank Jesus for the roof over my head, and the sheltered feeling of warmth that watching the rain can bring.

Other than this, I'm sure I could make up even more irrelevant stuff to say, but I might just go to bed soon instead. It is important that you remember to hold on to the things that make you happy in your life. So often, I think we let ourselves believe that if it's easy, or happy, or not "productive," it must be knocked clean off the "must do" list and into the "when I get around to it" pile. Not so! Cling to what is good. Fingerpaint. Write music. Lie on the floor with your head right underneath the piano and let the vibrations of the notes pour through you. These are the things on my list these days. Along side of "love the people that matter most to you," and "do not forget to remember your God."

Someone told me recently that my life sounds relaxing via the things I write here on perspicacious. You should know that my life is probably a lot like yours. It is relaxing when I let myself make space for relaxation. I strongly suggest you consider this as possibly one of the most important things you can do for yourself.

Just maybe.


Anyway. This is kind of long. I keep remembering more things I want to say.

One more list, and then I'll make myself finish.

Things I Hope for in the Near Future:
(or, Things that Sound Appealing)

1. A letter in the mail. With my name on the front of the envelope, written with affection by the hand of someone who cares. Words written by the strength of our hands are so few and far between these days. Especially ones with affection in between the spaces.

2. A song. A sweet song. One that either sounds like it was written just to me, or one that actually was. Who doesn't want that?

3. A heartbeat hug. Self-explanatory. Again, who doesn't want this?


Done. Or else you may never come back for fear that I'll just keep becoming increasingly more long-winded. Have no fear. The end is here.


Endnotes:

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those days.

So. Happy Friday.



I tried to make a cake today. Yes, make. And yes, tried. I would say "bake" except that the baking part was quite successful. It was the making that made the whole venture turn awry. And by "awry," I mean "really, really ugly." I managed to do everything right all up until it came time to actually take the layers out of the pans and ice them. Oh, buddy. I mean, really. How hard can it be? You flip the pans, and the layers float down in perfect wholeness. The very embodiment of light and fluffy, right? Not for Annie. The sweet-smelling layers of my spice-cake-to-be flopped uncertainly onto the cooling rack with an ominous lack of stability. By the time I was attempting to smear the icing around the top layer, it was way beyond unstable. It was a crumbling mass of comedic proportions; a colossal lump of cinnamon catastrophe; a distastrous experiment in destroying decadence. The crumbly remains of my baking extravaganza were too delicate for the icing so Katie suggested that I heat it in the microwave to try and get it to a more agreeable consistency. I did so, and succeeded not only in plastering up a few of the holes in my masterpiece, but also in nearly scorching my thumb off by trying to use my fingers in stead of my spatula.


All in all,
my cake kind of looks like this:


Nonetheless, I'm keeping it.
And, considering it tastes nothing like it looks, hopefully we won't have to look at it very long.


Anyway.
In other news,
most of everyone is either a] gone or b] going.

So, if you are neither of these things, we should be seeing each other this week.


Things I Desire in the Near Future:

1. Rest. Voraciously. I just can't seem to catch up on it. I think I unwittingly cram my days full of little things that lead to no time for the one big thing I actually need.

2. Soup&Socks. If you've never heard of this phenomenon, you should check it out, immediately. Basically, it's a lot of unbelievably wonderful young people who seek to "eradicate homelessness." Their mania for this cause is both contagious and unstoppable. I want to be a part.

3. Songwriting. Also voraciously. I think the tiredness has permeated my creative glands, though. I feel sleepy in my soul, and unable to produce newness until I allow myself to stop and breathe deeply.

4. Laughter. And someone I love to tell me that I've been taking myself too seriously. Again.


Other than this, I've got layers and layers of things on my mind. Like my cake, I'm feeling kinda crumbly. Unlike my cake, however, I get to put things back together, instead of existing to be torn apart.

Which is...a surprisingly unhappy way to think about food.


Well. Leave a comment. Let me know that you're alive. :)

the giver.

I'm home.



There is something unmistakeably sweet about piggyback rides. For a week, I've become many things that I rarely get to be. I've been head-kisser, bed-maker, command-giver, and the one who hugs tightly enough to forget that your mommy isn't there. I've been the lap to sit on, the hand to hold, the name to call when something isn't right. I've been question-answerer, joke-maker, the one to tell all your stories to when you want someone to laugh. I've been the tooth fairy and the schedule keeper. I've been the bedtime decider and the one to ask if you've brushed your teeth yet. I've been the hand on your forehead to check for fevers, and the one to make sure that you don't get left out. I've been the big girl who dances like a little girl, candy-keeper, and the one who cheers you on as you tip toe to the end of the diving board. But I have also been the piggyback-ride-giver.

The significance of this is heightened, I believe, by the fact that all of the girls cabins are at the top of an enormously long hill. Every day for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and everything in between, we lady counselors exhausted ourselves in herding groups of nine and ten little girls up and down this hill. By the end of the week, the girls are dragging their feet, to say the least. So, every day I'd crown one of my nine girls Queen of the Day, and one of them Princess of the Day. This award, given for an outstanding act of kindness, assured you a piggyback down the hill to the "wrap party" that night if you were Queen, and a piggyback down the hill to breakfast the next day if you were Princess. Other than this, I kept piggybacking to a relative minimum. Piggybacks were for special reasons, like shoelessness or being Queen, and not just for anyone who asked.

On Thursday, however, this changed completely.


One of my girls, Sonya, 43 pounds of heart-melting Korean cuteness, woke up feeling lousy. She was quiet and didn't speak up for herself much, but she felt awful enough to let me know that she didn't want to eat anything. By the end of breakfast, we were on our way to the nurse's office to find out she had a 101.9 degree fever. Immediately, plans were arranged for her daddy to come and get her. Before that could happen, however, there was much to be done. I don't know what levels of pitiful your heart can stand, but a tiny seven year old with a 102 fever takes the cake for me. No way was I letting her walk anywhere. So, I carried her. Sonya got piggybacks everywhere. Up the hill, down the hill, to the dodgeball courts- wherever I needed to be, Sonya's arms were around my neck. And as we walked, she talked. She had been the quiet one in the group, far more likely to be giggling at something one of the other girls had said than to be telling some funny story of her own. But once she was on my back, she was full of things to say. The one-on-one closeness combined with the trust that I would take care of her opened up all kinds of doors for Sonya. She hugged me tightly when it came time for her to go, and I knew we had won each other's hearts. That night when I put the other girls to bed and I saw Sonya's empty space, a little rush of sadness flooded my heart. It is inexplicable how taking care of someone connects your heart to theirs. I miss her, still.


This, of course, is just one of so many moments of deep sweetness. I don't know if I could fully describe the kind of happiness I found in watching two of my girls walk down the road holding hands in newly found companionship, or in little Mackenzie blind-folding herself and asking me to lead her back to the cabin. I loved the way it became easy to sacrifice dancing and jumping around during worship when one of them climbed tearfully onto my lap and leaned on my shoulder. I can't imagine how much parents must love their kids. A taste of it made my heart swell with happiness.

Don't get me wrong.

For every moment that I got to spend in absolute delight over something wonderful one of my girls had done, there was a moment of pulling-my-hair-out frustration when none of them were in their beds after half an hour of me circling the room telling them all to brush their teeth. But, what could I do? They won my heart, one by one, until I belonged almost completely to their laughter and their tears and their always, always calling my name. It happens every year.

And that's why I'm so completely worn out today.
That, and the staying up until four in the morning having water balloon fights thing.
But, that doesn't make for soulful blogging material.

So there.


Hmmm...what else?

I'm sure I'll think of something. So much happened this week that I have to pick and choose what to say, or I'd be writing this blog until next year's camp. So just assume that it was the best, most tiring week of the summertime, and you'll be on the right track.


Now, to go eat Oreos and perhaps watch a movie. Or sleep. Or anything else that requires little to no physical participation. As much as I love those girls, my heart is in my pillow today.


So. I'll see you soon.

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the end.

the light in your eyes.

I'm writing to you from the lovely, lovely Lake Keowee, SC.

We're in the Cliffs, a luxury home community in which our gracious friends the McEntees have a house. It's beautiful here. This is where we went yesterday,



Pictures of me actually on the falls will be up eventually. :)

So, I'm trying to write an admissions essay and I don't think it has ever been such a thought-provoking task. So many admissions essays are based on trivial questions about life experiences that give you a chance to make yourself sound complex and intelligent. It seems to me, however, that I only ever get the really good questions that really mess with your writing bone.

Actually, the questions aren't what makes it good.
It's just that I can't seem to write a dumb-it-down answer.
If an essay doesn't have a real spine, I am likely to fail atrociously at attempting to make it sound convincing.

So, instead, I write deeply, if I can.

This time, I am writing about my favorite poem, Dirge without Music, by Edna St. Vincent-Millay. I only read this poem every now and then, but every time I do, it surprises me with how deeply it resonates in my heart. In trying to put three points and a thesis to why this poem has affected me profoundly, I have had to actually put a formula to the feeling I get every time I read it. And, strangely, the more I read it, the deeper I feel it, and the stronger I am pulled back to the places of grief in my heart.

Dirge Without Music
by Edna St. Vincent-Millay

"I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned."

I have felt this anger. I have felt this pain.


When my mom miscarried in October of 2005, everything that was stable in my life began to feel unsteady. As she spiraled emotionally downward into post-partum depression, and physically into a series of undiagnosed illnesses, I fell deeply into my own hurt. Anyone who has ever been hurt by the tragedies of this earth will tell you that one of the greatest pains of loss is that the world keeps moving. You feel as though the wind has been knocked out of you, and you just can't walk anymore, but the world keeps breathing, keeps moving, keeps stumbling forward. The sun shines. The days come and go. And so when I felt my world falling apart, I chose to just keep moving. I cried. I hurt. But I shut the windows in my heart, and walked forward unblinkingly. Not until now have I realized that I closed the windows too soon.

But how do you come to terms with the tragedies that don't make sense? How do you reconile the things that no one can explain? How do you keep asking questions when you do not think you will be answered? How do you turn to God when you feel abandoned?

It was a baby. He never even got to breathe. His loss threw my mother into anxiety, chaos, and deep, deep darkness.

"God has a plan. Everything will be okay."

I know. But I do not approve.

I feel so in-between these days. I didn't know I still felt this old pain. I didn't know my heart was still not opened up all the way. So. As new beauty enters my life, maybe I am learning to open the windows inside of me so that the old pain can find its way out.

Anyway.
I sincerely recommend walking through your heart-cemetary with that poem in mind. There is some thing to be mourned in every life.

Open up your heart windows and let us see you again.



On the to-do list for the rest of vacation:

1. Sleep. Until I feel rested in every bone.

2. Eat. With happiness and laughter, and with room for dessert.

3. Write. Because it's how I remember who I am. And because I want to go to Oglethorpe in the Fall.

4. Play. In the water. In the sun. In the kitchen, with my family. To my heart's content.

5. Get LOST. It's family time! We all hunker down in the basement and become completely absorbed in the story. This is probably the only show ever to get me actually talking, yelling, whispering to the TV screen. Screaming, too. Yeah, it's that good.


Anyway. Thoughts for today are a little heavier than usual perhaps. Comment anyway.

And, thank you for reading.
You get ten points just for that.

an all-american blog.

So, I've been thinking about...



patriotism.
(what else?)

My dad and I were in the car earlier this morning, driving home from the tag office, when I noticed something I would generally scorn. It was one of those houses that gets a little Independence Day crazy and sticks like, 47 of those little American flags in their front lawn. I rolled my eyes internally and made some snide remark about my deep dislike for such gaudy displays of patriotism. This caught my father's attention. Unwittingly, I had stepped into a clash of opinion with Chris Morgan, philosophy major and owner of 45 years of experience on earth. This is something I do not recommend trying unless you've studied and taken your vitamins for the day. Throw in an extra half hour to your morning prayer time, and you might have a fighting chance.

I, however, had done none of these things. I had never even vocalized my reasons for such a strong abhorrence to the proud displaying of our country's colors. I wasn't even sure why I felt the way I felt, I just knew that I felt that way. So, as my father began to press back with great and overwhelming force of opinion, I found my voice.

Suddenly, I realized that I believe that America wears her flag the way the Church wears its steeple. The stars and stripes of our emblem are made to represent what America herself was made to represent: beauty, truth, and, of course, freedom. We march around in a pageant-like display of the colors, all the while forgetting what exactly they stand for. So, while the church struggles to remember that it is the people inside of the church building that hold significance, America should labor to see freedom at its greatest depth, not to see the colors of our flag on every lawn.

I didn't come to exact conclusions, mind you. My father made some statements that I still need to untangle inside my mind. But just being pressed on the issue, forced to vocalize my thoughts, made me see the strong places and the crumbling pieces of the things I believe.

Yes, there is a lot of pageantry celebrating the colors instead of the concepts of America. But are we not also fighting for freedom in other places in the world? And if we are, am I even an active voice in that battle?

I call myself a patriot because I believe in truth, beauty, and freedom. I believe in love above all else, and justice for the oppressed. But if I do not illuminate those things, if I do not make my life a flag bearing the colors of what I believe in, then I am not a patriot at all. I'm just a house with a lot of nice decorations.

Anyway. As usual, it's not all worked out in my head. But I am in a better frame of mind on the topic than I was previous to the conversation with my dad, if only because now I'm actually thinking about it. If I'm not thinking about it, I'm no better than the people I accuse of ignorance, laziness, or apathy. And, if I am thinking about it but not letting it affect my beliefs, the result is the same.

So. All of that said... Happy fourth of July! Ha.

My family went to go see fireworks in downtown Jefferson on Saturday night. As always, it was endearing, entertaining, and relatively exhilarating. Anytime you are watching fireworks and getting scared that the trees a few yards away from you might spontaneously combust, things get interesting. I always forget how much I like watching fireworks until the fourth of July rolls around. My family drags me out into the fierce humidity, makes camp in a colony of infuriated fire ants, and tries to squint past the brightness of the streetlights to see some exploding colors sail up into the sky, but! In the end it is so worth it. We were so close that the biggest explosions made you feel like a fish about to be caught up in an enormous net of spark and flame. At times, it was breathtaking.

Which is probably not an adjective one would commonly associate with downtown Jefferson like, at all.

Anyway. Mom is going to pick me up and we are going to drive around in my Beautiful Buick, and go out to lunch.

Oh! That reminds me.

The Beautiful Buick has a name!

We shall call her,



Marilyn.

She's american, she's confident, and she's beautiful.
And, according to Kevin Queen, she's got gusto.

So, that's all.

As always, anyone can comment.
And once again,
leave your email addresses if you want to be on the email list.:)